Atrophy
by Rumbella
Summary: Mr. Gold didn't expect to find a blonde version of Belle in the hospital after losing Boyd's daughter, nor did he expect for her to have an obsession with slippers. He assumes she is only there as a volunteer, and yet when he finds out the truth, Gold finds himself entangled in her world of blunt words and hopeful asides. Rumbelle AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Here we go, another new series! I can't promise this will be updated quickly as I've currently got two (and possibly three) other series going on right now, but I will try my best! **

**I own nothing but my fangirling heart. I hope you enjoy, dearie! **

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He slammed his palm against the useless machine, swearing under his breath as a single drop of coffee sputtered into his cup.

Previously, hitting the machine had given him a cup of the bitter liquid, but now it was completely uncooperative.

First he'd lost Boyd's daughter, no thanks to the savior, and now it seemed he couldn't have a single cup of coffee without beating the incompetent machine with his fist.

He stared at the styrafoam cup accusingly, as if his magic would return in that instant to give him his proper cuppa. He'd opened his eyes to this world as a man who preferred bitter, black coffee rather than a simple cup of tea. He hadn't had a _real _cup of tea in ages.

Not since-

_No. _His mind automatically blocked off the thoughts within the second the memories resurfaced, memories of fondly watching the brunette approach him each morning with his chipped cup full of tea, a coy smile on her lips.

The thoughts of _her _sent lukewarm pains twinging throughout his chest. As if the tortuous dreams of Baelfire hadn't been enough...

Her dreams were better considered nightmares. So realistic and uplifting that he'd wake from them with glossy eyes and a heavier heart.

Just as he was about to consider using his cane to make the machine comply to his need of a pick-me-up, he noted the presence beside him.

"Let me. She's a stubborn old thing, but if you sweet talk her a 'lil she'll fill 'er right up," the feminine, accented voice spoke, the voice that haunted him, the voice that made him want to tear his own heart from his chest and reduce it to ashes in his fingers.

His body was completely rigid as his eyes locked onto the "o" of scripted word "coffee" that stretched across the machine, refusing to allow them to water. He grit his teeth so tightly that he felt a creak of protest, his fingers gripping onto his cane so tightly that the polished stick wobbled.

_Her _hand came into view, laying flat against the machine. "Come on, give the man his coffee," she muttered in a sweet, lilting tone before giving the machine a firm smack. Her hand receded, and he caught her scent in his nostrils.

She even smelled the same. Roses and vanilla.

How she had managed to smell so sweet in his dusty old castle had always baffled him.

Her thumb pressed against the dull red button, a small laugh breezing into his ears. "Ah-ha," he could hear the smile on her mouth. Her fingernails were painted yellow. An odd color, perhaps, but she was quite an odd girl to begin with. So odd that the color was fitting in his eyes.

He steeled himself as he slowly drew back a step from the machine, unable to utter a single word. He had to look upon her, but his body felt like putty.

His stomach, on the other hand, churned with nausea. Regina. The dour _bitch _had lied to him. She'd mocked her death, a smug little grin on her lips.

He'd always assumed that his misfortune had amused her, but she'd been amused by her little lie.

He wanted to find Regina Mills. He wanted to find her and beat her until her face was disfigured and unrecognizable.

"Are you okay, buddy?"

_Buddy. _This girl was certainly not Belle. Even so, this girl occupied her body. The real Belle was _surely _in there, somewhere hidden.

He took a long breath, steeling himself before taking the full cup from the dispenser, turning to look at the woman he'd once believed to be dead.

She wasn't Belle.

At all.

Her hair was _blonde_ a shade that reminded him of the dirty hay that he once would spin into gold, one that didn't look right at all on the brunette's head. He squinted to see her former chestnut brown seeping back in through the roots of her hair, her shorter hair. It only reached her shoulders now, her tresses still curled and soft.

She wore a simple, gray long sleeved shirt, covered with black butterflies.

_Of all the things.._.

Butterflies. He almost laughed aloud.

She wore plaid pajama pants that matched with her top, the under-laying color being gray and the overlaying black stripes criss-crossing across the cotton pants. He cringed internally at the thought of _his _Belle feeling comfortable in such clothing in public, but the slippers were what had him no longer cringing inwardly, but right there before her.

They were huge and green. With claws.

Plush crocodile feet.

She wore these with such ease, that he found himself realizing that only Belle would feel so content in the audacious slippers.

"You okay?"

His head jerked up to her impossibly blue eyes, his own growing blurrier and blurrier with tears as the seconds ticked by.

"Are you _crying_?" the girl questioned, eyes widening. "Woah, woah, come on."

And in an instant, she was holding his arm in her hands _Belle _was holding his arm, tugging him down the irritatingly bright hospital hallway before he could even muster up a gruff reply.

_Belle_ had her hands grasped on his arm. _Belle _jerked her head back to look back at him as he meekly followed her down the hall.

He no longer was peeved at losing Ashley Boyd's child, but he was almost thankful that the girl had stubbornly held onto the child and made it necessary for him to come to the hospital. If he hadn't come here, would he have ever even stumbled upon the girl?

Belle eased her way through the various staff members as they flipped through their charts and spoke to their coworkers. She moved with such a fluid familiarity that Gold questioned if she was here volunteering.

_Of course_. Belle loved children, she loved reading. Surely she wore the slippers and pajama pants to make the children she read to feel comfortable. Surely.

They reached the end of the hallways, standing before a beige elevator. Belle quickly glanced around them, as if she was making sure they weren't being followed before pressing the up button and stepping in after they waited a short moment, tugging Gold with her. She pressed the button to take them to the top floor, the fourth floor, before releasing him.

He immediately planted himself as far as he could from her, as if she were a siren, simply taking on her figure to catch him off guard long enough to impale him.

"I mean, I know it's hard if she's sick, but you just have to be strong, you know? At least she has someone there for her."

He jerked out of his haze of thoughts as he heard her speak, his brow furrowing. "_Who_?" he questioned, his voice coming out much too harsh. He cursed himself, knowing that he had already ruined the woman's life once before. He certainly wasn't off to a good start in this life.

"Your wife, girlfriend, mum, daughter. Whoever's sick," she shrugged, fumbling with the chain-linked bracelet that hung loosely from her right wrist. "Unless someone died, then I s'pose that's okay to cry about."

Gold's eyes locked on the bracelet, finally noting the plastic bracelet below it reading "B. French, Room 112."

How had he missed it before

"I have nobody here," Gold answered, clearing his throat and wishing so very desperately for his magic so he could erase the recollection of his tears from her mind.

"Why were you crying, then? Did Sheila offend you that much?" she frowned, crossing her arms.

"Sheila?" he questioned, his brow permanently knit together from the constant confusion that this form of Belle seemed to cause him.

"The stubborn machine down there, I had to name her since I use her so much. I'm Belle, by the way," she extended her hand across the elevator to him, the start of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Of course. Regina hadn't even tried to cover up the girl's existence with a mockingly obvious title, perhaps Isabelle or Rose. The woman clearly wanted to flaunt that Belle was alive and well by leaving her with her name, but to leave her out on her own where he could find her...what was the woman playing at?

"Gold. Mr. Gold," was his reply as he found the strength to keep himself from trembling any longer. He knew he would never become accustomed to seeing Belle standing across from him, breathing and healthy, but it was a comforting thought to know he could easily protect her in this world.

"Mr is your first name?" she crossed her arms from across him, her upper half arched towards him and a teasing grin on her lips.

"No," he replied, still trying to grasp his wits. He was accustomed to having the upper hand, _he _was the one that was supposed to be shooting out quips. With this form of Belle, however, he was thrown completely off of the playing field."Why are you here, Miss French?" he finally questioned, his voice much too soft.

"That's what they all ask," she snorted, rolling her eyes to stare off to the side. "Brain tumor. They don't know if it's malignant or not, but they're putting me on chemo anyway, just to nip what they can in the bud. Sucks, yeah?"

She acted as if it was nothing at all. Like a few stitches on the cheek or even a small cut that would scab and heal.

It was a tumor.

_They don't know if it's malignant or not.  
_  
Possibly a cancerous tumor.

People died from tumors.

People died from cancer.

He felt bile rising in his throat, followed by a cold sweat that caused his sight to blur. His heart no longer seemed to be beating at all as he stood there, leaning entirely against the wall.

His Belle.

His Belle was on the border of death.

That bright smile, those inquisitive eyes...

He'd only gotten her back.

"I found out a few days ago. Same day the clocks started working. I thought it was ironic," her voice wasn't amused at all by the coincidence, but bitter, as was her gaze.

His fingers tightened around the handle of his cane.

_Regina. _

This sick, demented thing was her creation and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to barge into her office and bludgeon that snide face to bits, again and again, until there was nothing left.

And yet the thoughts left as he felt Belle's hand reach out for his. "Come on, it's no big deal," she muttered, almost as if embarrassed.

She tugged him from the elevator, strolling out into a smaller ward of the hospital. "Just act cool and nobody'll even notice," she advised.

_Cool. Act "cool" after such news. _

"Notice _what_?" he heard himself question.

"We're not really supposed to be going where we are," was her nonchalant reply as she took a sharp turn down another hall that ended with a single door.

She pushed the door open, the unforgiving Maine wind blowing her dirty blonde locks back against his face, making him realize how closely he was following the woman as her hair tickled at his nose.

The smell made his curdling stomach ache all the more. Her hair smelled fruity and fresh, even in this setting.

The smell of her.

Belle could _die. _

He paused in the doorway, eyes distant as he leaned heavily against the frame.

Belle had taken a few steps out, pausing as she realized he wasn't with her. "Hey Gold, you okay?" she called, frowning lightly.

She acted so happy. She acted as if it was as simple as taking a pill and being told she was healthy again.

She was dying and she didn't seem to grieve over it.

He felt as if he was the one taking it seriously.

He gave a tight nod, slowly following her to the edge of the roof, where she plopped down and let her legs hang from the edge of the building. "I like to come up here and read when Nurse Ratched isn't on my tail," she commented, staring contently down at the town below.

He watched her with concern, wondering how many times she'd sat so carefree on the edge of death without anyone aware. Gold let his cane drop behind him as he gingerly lowered himself beside her. His leg offered no pain as it was alleviated from constantly supporting his weight as it hung below him, something that he almost marveled over.

He imagined the faces of Storybrooke occupants if they could see him now, the fearsome Mr. Gold sitting next to a pale girl wearing large crocodile foot slippers.

"Nurse Ratched?" he heard himself question in his haze of thought.

"That's not her real name, but she reminds me of the lady. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, you heard of it?" she questioned, cocking her head as she faced him.

"No," was his answer. He wanted to draw the girl to his side and keep her there.

He would've loved the contact to sooth his aching heart, but his real worry was that she would simply push off the roof and fly down towards the concrete below.

"It's a great book," she smiled, fumbling with her fingers. "Good movie too. This nurse was so strict that you just wouldn't believe it."

"She isn't kind to you?" Gold felt his ears perk at the mention of mistreatment.

"No, no, she's all right, just strict. She's afraid I'll kill myself before Dr. Whale finally operates on my noggin," she shrugged.

Of course, Whale. The man did everything possible, thanks to Regina's petty little curse. It was no surprise that he specialized in neurological surgery along with everything else..

"I just..." she heaved a heavy sigh, a sudden look of turmoil washing across her features. "I'm _fucking_ sick of...of the movies and books and the way they show people like me, people that are dying," she spat the words out between gritted teeth, eyes brimming with tears as she looked upwards towards the heavens.

To hear such a crude word pass Belle's lips made him feel all the worse in his chest, but it wasn't Belle. Her accent was harsher in this form, dryer, in a way. The emotion in her voice though, the wavering thickness, it made his heart ache with such force that his breath hitched.

"They make it seem like cancer and...tumors will bring you everything you couldn't have. All your relationships are magically like gold, no pun intended, and all of your dreams come true. Your magical lover boy comes and kisses you and sleeps with you in your hospital bed, but I don't have one of those. Your parents visit you and show you childhood photos of you with birthday cake smeared all over your face, but my mum's long dead and my dad doesn't give a ruddy rat's ass about me. You go through all this shit and suddenly you're in critical condition, yeah? Like dying, and that lover boy cries over you as you're barely breathing and kisses you and _boom _you're all good again. You marry him and have a pack and life is good again."

She gave a hasty laugh, eyes coated in a sheen of tears as she looked out at the town below, the wind tousling her blond strands about her face. "It's not like that at all, it's lonely. All I do it walk around this place until Ratched throws me back in my room and I reread Jane Eyre and cry and vomit and cry some more. Brain tumors aren't sexy or dramatic. My head hurts, my eyes twitch and I look like a puppet having her strings jerked around when I seize."

"And the only part that's been _anything _like a movie is this. Me, finding a random stranger to vent to. No doubt it's the man with the pink house that the nurses call the 'town terror', but it's someone."

Gold said nothing, looking down between them and jumping to see their hands, tightly entwined against the rough gravely surface of the roof. She knew where he lived. The image of the girl laying on her stomach, watching the town from her little roof and seeing him tapping along towards his house came to mind after she spoke.

"It hurts," she continued, hastily wiping her face with an open palm. "Knowing that I'm probably going to die and...that I won't be able to get married and have kids. I always felt like there was something missing in my life and...I'll never really know _what_ it was. I thought maybe I needed to get a frickin' dog or something to follow me around and stuff, like a friend, but...I can't do that anymore. My own dad can't even bear to be in here. Says it reminds him of mum, but he's just too weak to even...support me."

Gold's mind was set as he looked to her. He was going to buy her as many dogs and ridiculous slippers as she wanted. He wouldn't cry, nor would he give up on her. He would beat her father to a pulp; Whale too for good measure to ensure that she was properly cared for while in his hospital. He would hold her hand as much as she wanted because she had done so much for him in their other land. It was about time that he stepped from the coward's shadow and took _action _to repay her for the feelings she had evoked in his barren heart.

He wasn't sure what to say in that moment. She'd spilled her entire heart to him, her secrets, her woes. What was he meant to say?

"Belle," he managed in a weak tone, his brow furrowed as his eyes moved to gaze into hers. "Why, out of everyone, would you tell me these things?"

Of course he couldn't console her, but instead hurt her, make her feel as if she should find someone better.

"Because I know your reputation and I think you're a good man, despite the rumors," she muttered, jerking her hand away from his and resting it on her knee. "Because maybe I remembered how damn lonely you looked walking by yourself and thought that maybe, just maybe you'd like to have a friend too. I'm either going to be dead or alive in a few months after they flush me out with chemo so you won't have to bother with me that long."

"I'm not denying you," he quickly interjected, blinking rapidly. "I'm a very busy man and I-"

"I get it, you're dropping me off, it makes sense," she murmured, eyes dropping to the ground below.

He wasn't sure if it was the fear of her realizing how alone she was and dropping off of the building, or the guilt he felt that drew her into his next action, but soon his arms were snugly around her, making for an awkward hug as they sat side by side. His chin rested on her shoulder, his eyes boring into the side of her face as she resumed staring off, expressionless.

Belle shifted, slowly turning into him, her arms sliding between his and her cheek pressing against his shoulder. "I haven't had a hug for probably seven years, you know that?" she spoke, voice muffled by his jacket.

"You've lived a lonely life, Miss French," he replied, trying to ignore the how blurry his vision was becoming from the tears spooling in his eyes.

"Look who's talkin'," she snorted, inhaling against him. "You smell good, Mr. Gold," she said, voice so serious that he wasn't sure if he should laugh or bring her his bottle of cologne to smell to her heart's content.

She remained where she was, her fingers moving to clutch onto the lapels of his suit as her temple rested snugly against his collar bone. "Why do you worry...about using expensive cologne if you think people are afraid of you? How would they even smell it if they're trying to avoid you?" she slowly questioned, her eyes boring off elsewhere in the distance, a glassy look to them.

"Perhaps I knew you'd be clutching to me like this, hm?" Gold found himself murmuring, a smirk on his lips as he jostled her lightly in his arms, enough for her to tilt her face upwards, her tears still flowing, but a smile on her lips.

"You're crying, Mr. Gold. You're crying just like me," she frowned suddenly, a trembling hand moving to slide along his cheek. She displayed the sheen of his tears on her fingers, almost as if she thought he would need proof of his own tears. a confused expression on her face.

Gold almost laughed. If only she knew how powerful those tears were if used correctly in a potion.

"You're actually going to visit me, aren't you?" she asked, befuddled and quite shocked.

"Even _I _get bored of being a menace," he quickly excused, the tempting to add in his trademark "dearie" almost overwhelming.

He used that simple "pet" name for many people.

Emma Swan.

Snow White.

Cora.

Regina.

A name used for wicked people and people that he sneered at was not a name to use for someone as special as Belle.

_Belle is dying. _

He felt as if it was all some cruel nightmare, close to the ones he often had of both Belle and Baelfire.

The realization kept slipping from his mind and he found himself more intent on wooing her once more, but it kept finding him.

_Belle is dying. _

Each time the thought slid into his mind, he felt his heart squeeze.

He wanted to believe this was some cruel nightmare, some...vision.

And yet this was all very real.

She _was_ dying. Not dying, perhaps, but she was ill. She was on the border of life an death, on a tightrope above a pit of nothingness.

His mind was stuck in a flurry of thoughts, fears, pains.

There he was, trying to make her smile, thinking of _her_.

Rumplestiltskin only thought of his own gain.

When he made a deal, the only thought in his mind was: "How can this work for _me_?"

And now he was putting aside his urge to either flee and sob recklessly in some secluded corner or seek out Regina Mills and give her a slow, torturous death to make this woman in his arms smile.

"I'll be here each step of the way," he said, meeting her eyes with a meaningful stare.

Belle only nodded, slowly scooting back and out of his arms. "You really mean it, huh..?" she bobbed her head a few times, eyes glued to her hands, which she wrung in her lap.

"I do," he agreed, pushing himself back and attempting to stand, giving a wince from the ache shooting up his leg despite his best attempt to steel himself.

"Oh!" she cried, quickly clambering to her feet with wide eyes. "No, no, let me!"

Before he could decline, she had wrapped her arms around his waist, giving a grunt as she hefted him to his feet with the help of his good leg.

He said nothing, but openly stared at her, his eyes confused. Belle. Such stubborn wiles...

Ignoring her own state to help him.

_His _Belle.

She was inside this blonde-haired, slipper wearing, girl.

"Um, now then," she murmured, dusting off her pajama pants. "I guess you've got to go bark at some people, right?" she cocked her head to the side a little, a wry grin on her lips.

"That I do," he agreed stiffly, accepting his cane from the girl after she plucked it from the ground.

"And I'll be, um...here. Like always," she added, with a nod.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he informed. "Don't tumble off of the roof, dear, no need to cut our future visits short."

_Dear._

She gave another awkward nod, waving at him with a smile that almost seemed bashful.

He wanted to stay the night.

He wanted to stay the rest of his time on this world with her.

He would sleep in the thinly cushioned chair that most likely sat by her bedside.

He would hold her hand if she was ever scared, or perhaps in pain from an injection.

He would hold her hair as she vomited, rub her back when she was finished and aching.

If she allowed him, he would sleep by her side, find a way around the IVs if they were present.

He would remove her slippers for her, he would buy her flowers each day, he would break her out and take her to the library, he would bring the library to her.

Anything.

He blinked, realizing that he no longer was standing before the girl on the roof, but was in the elevator, the red button that was to be pressed to halt the elevator glowing a dim red.

He blinked, dimly aware that his hands were flaring with pain.

He slowly looked down at his knuckles, red and swollen.

His gaze shifted to the wall of the elevator, which wore an impressive few dents.

He pressed the button once more, leaning more heavily on his cane as the elevator stuttered to resume descending.

The curse.

Belle had mentioned that they had found it after the clock had begun to move once more.

This was surely Regina's fail safe to ruin him.

The savior comes, the love of his life dies.

If he could remove the curse...prematurely...

Remove the curse, regain magic.

Regain magic, remove the tumor.

Gold exited the elevator, an expression on his face that could be read as either grim or concentrated, when it was truly a mixture of both.

For now, he intended upon "visiting" Victor Whale.

The man wouldn't be sneaking into bowels of the hospital for his flask before anything concerning Belle, nor would she be treated as anything below royalty so long as she remained here.

After, he would head to the General Store, watching as a very confused Mr. Clark took the stack of slippers he had selected from his basket.

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**I hope you liked it! Next chapter we'll meet Belle's friend in the hospital. :) **

**Though I hope it's worth continuing? **

**Thanks for reading, dearie!**

**Review if you wish to do so! 3**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here we are, chapter two! **

**I really hope you enjoy, dearie! **

**I own nothing but my fangirling heart. **

* * *

She wondered if other patients woke to the beeping of machines or a passing car.

She woke every morning to the faint thrumming beat of a few tom drums, muffled from her headphones.

_"Here comes Johnny Yen again,_"

She gave a gutteral groan, rolling over and burying her face into her pillow as her hand idly smacked around upon the wheeled tray next to her bed, searching for the source of the noise.

_"With liquor and drugs and a flesh machine," _

She found her mp3 player and clicked off the song, just before Ser Pop could resume talking about Johnny Yen and his strip teasing.

Belle had two ways to wake up, as she had two ways to do many things.

Either Perry Como would sing about catching falling stars in his sauntering voice or Iggy Pop would sing with his raspy tone and make her want to break out of the hospital that instant, various shenanigans ensuing.

Belle winced as she finally creaked open an eye, the sun glaring in from the cracked curtains in the corner of the room.

She slid up resting her brow against her wrist as nausea quivered up and down her throat, fading as she forced her thoughts to fluffy, warm puppies. This always helped, though when worst came to worst, she had to force her thoughts to whiteness.

For Belle French, forcing her jumping mind to blankness was nearly impossible.

Her head lolled forward as she glanced around her room, looking at the various magazine cutouts around her room, of silhouettes, of hands holding hands, of pyramids and temples.

She cut out what she wanted in life. She cut them out because she could have them on her wall, have them to pretend she'd been there, that the happy families were actually hers.

She looked to the rose at the side of her bed, beside the untouched phone. It was long dead, the only thing she'd ever gotten during her stay, given to her by Mary Margaret, the volunteer that had visited her a long time ago in the past, with a snowy complexion and warm eyes.

She had these things to try and make her feel like she was home again, sprawled out on her stomach across her bed as she flipped through her current book, ambient music playing in her earphones.

The hospital tried to portray this comfort, this sense of home, of safety.

She hated it.

The whole hospital was painted with homey shades of paint and had various motivational posters hanging on the walls with distressed kittens and babies.

The attempt of comfort was what aggravated Belle all the more.

No matter how many flowers and paintings they had strewn about the place, it was the same for her.

Maybe they wanted visitors to feel comfortable with their loved ones staying, but what Belle wanted to know was why the _hell _the people designing the place hadn't tried doing what was best for those that would be staying there for weeks on end, for those that would be

Cold, white, and eerie.

That's what it was.

The stale, clean smell made her feel like she needed a shower, not one of the bullshit ones that she'd take in the showering rooms, Nurse Ratched standing outside the stall, tapping her foot while Belle would incoherently hum.

She wanted a bath, a real bath in searing hot water that would make her skin bright red and would make her feel so warm and safe that she could nearly fall asleep.

Belle pushed herself up, fumbling to slide off of the bed and onto the floor. She stood, closing her eyes as her body swayed from side to side, like a thin tree in the wind. She gathered herself and moved to the window, nudging the curtain aside to look out at the gloomy Maine sky.

Sometimes, Belle wondered if she actually was okay, that the tumor was just a lie, a prank. Some days she woke and felt healthy and happy.

And on these days, she felt like absolute shit.

There was no other way to put it, no fancy words, nothing.

Shit.

Her heart was anchored down to her stomach and her eyes felt like leaking pipes.

She turned her attention to the door as she heard footsteps, forcing a smile on her lips as she greeted the elderly nurse that bustled in with her breakfast tray, an Englishwoman named Helen Pot. "Breakfast is served," she crooned in her lovely English accent that reminded Belle of a pristine noblewoman that had tea twice a week with her friends just to gossip.

Belle adored Helen. Not only because the woman was nearly the grandmother she'd never had, but she agreed that Ratched deserved to be called Ratched and she also made sure Belle had the same breakfast each morning. Two slices of toast with cinnamon, sugar and butter on the top, an apple and orange juice.

"You'd best be eatin' all of that, darling. I don't want to see the full plate returned just as it has been as of late," the woman pointedly remarked.

Belle nearly blushed, wanting to forget about that brief little rebellion. _If I'm gonna die, what's the fuckin' point? __Might as well go now. No one cares. Noonecaresnoonecaresnoone..._

And of course the blankness seemed to end. Yesterday, actually, it did.

Mr. Gold and his musky cologne made her stomach grumble to the point that she'd tracked Helen down and pleaded for a late night dinner.

"Of courth I will," Belle replied, earning a furrowing from Helen's gray brows as she spoke in the middle of stuffing a piece of toast into her mouth.

"There's a man outside of your room, you know," Helen pointed out as Belle padded across the room in her bare feet, pushing her wheeled table over towards the window.

"Really now?" she questioned, plopping the smooth bit of her crust down on the tray as she'd never favored that part.

"Awful tall man," the woman scrunched up her nose, shaking her head as she casually took Belle's wrist, finger lightly pushing against her skin as she took her pulse. "You'd think he was a giant," she removed her hand, moving towards the chart that hung on the wall against Belle's bed, quickly scrawling down Belle's heart rate.

"You think he's my Prince Charming?" Belle asked with a wry grin before plopping down in the chair beside the window, reaching over to take a sip of her orange juice.

"I don't know _what _he is, but he's speakin' to Ratched this very moment. If he gives you any trouble, you'd best come to me first," she gave Belle a gentle pat on the arm before moving towards the door. "Y'hear?"

"I hear," Belle coyly waved her apple at the woman as she exited, relaxing into her seat once she was left to herself.

She'd soon be sitting in this seat with gloves and boots on to keep her hands and feet cool and with an IV stuck in her arm. Supposedly the mittens and boots would minimize the damage done to her nails and skin, but Belle personally didn't see the point.

That being said, chemotherapy would start shortly, much to her surprise.

Up until yesterday, she was under the impression that she wouldn't be able to get the treatment. A few days ago, she'd been informed that her father could no longer pay for her treatments that were meant to take place before the surgery. She hadn't told Gold this, she didn't think she _had _to. She'd only just met the man and it wasn't something she was keen on sharing.

_He's obviously upset by the whole thing, though there's really no reason why. Just let the guy think you're gonna get treatment, make it easier on the poor sod.  
_

And yet an hour after he left, she'd been informed by Whale himself that her expenses had been taken care of.

When she questioned who, the pale man had paled even more, hurriedly informing her that the client wished to remain anonymous before excusing himself.

Who else in the town had the ability to bestow such fear, so much that the usually flirtatious Dr. Whale had no flirtations to use?

Gold.

The bastard was paying for her and giving her a chance of survival, but she had no clue why.

They'd connected, yeah, hugged it out for awhile even, but the man didn't even know her. He only knew what she'd shown him that afternoon on the roof. He didn't know that Belle hated tomatoes, nor did he know that she'd won the spelling bee every single damned year in primary school.

She should've felt guilty that he was doing this, she should've left the hospital, marched to his little shop and demand that he stop, but at the same time, there was something stirring inside of her chest.

Hope.

She pushed the table away as she finished her apple, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms about them as she waited for the lovely Ratched to bustle in with her perfectly pinned hair and her severe eyes.

The first few days, she'd feared the woman's arrival, afraid of the woman finding something else to harp on her about, but after she'd realized the woman really couldn't do much other than glower with disdain and make stern remarks after her health, she lost that fear.

She awaited Ratched, her faint smile still in place.

She was intrigued to see the woman entered with a man that could've only been the man of interest that Helen had described to her.

He wore a sleek black suit and was so tall that the door frame nearly scathed the top of his bald head upon entering.

"Who's this?" she blurted out as Ratched glared towards her, as if she had decided Belle was to blame for the man entering the hospital in the first place.

She was probably right, but that was no reason to glare.

"This is...Mr. Dove," the woman informed, casting a sidelong glance to the man, her disdain so strong that Belle could nearly see her string of sharp words floating in the air about her head. The man didn't like this, as he cleared his throat and her face suddenly looked less intimidating and more blank.

"All right then," murmured Belle as she took the cup of pills that Ratched stiffly extended towards her, her bracelet gayly tinkling all the while.

She felt like a cat with one of those bell collars, (her bracelet being the collar) but she loved it all the same. Everyone in the hospital knew when Belle French was headed down towards their section because of her happy little bracelet and its tinkling little jingle.

She quickly downed the small cup, swallowing the horse pills with the rest of her orange juice. The pills were supposed to be helping with her headaches, nausea, blurry sight, dizziness, migraines and stiffness, throat involuntarily clenching as the pills inched their way down.

They did decrease about half of her problems, but the wretched little things made her feel less like a human and more like a half-dead, lumbering corpse.

"Thanks," she regarded Ratched's icy blue eyes for a moment before her gaze was attracted to Mr. Dove, who carefully watched her as if an assassin was about to drop from the ceiling and kill her right there.

"I'll wait outside to take you to your shower," the nurse pointedly commented, casting Mr. Dove one final look of stifled irritation before tapping her way out of the room.

"Mr. Dove, huh..." she finally spoke up after a moment of watching the bald man glance about the room, the man even daring to examine a few of her cut-outs.

He said nothing in reply, though his shoulders did hunch as if she'd caught him stealing from the cookie jar.

"I bet you know Mr. Gold, right?"

_Got him. _

By the way his entire body went rigid, she knew she was right. "Well, then, what's your purpose here? Security guard? Protecting me from the lump in my head?"

He said nothing for a long while, grimacing at the wall. "Mr. Gold has placed me here to ensure that you're properly cared for," he said, his voice just as Belle imagined it would be, deep and monotone.

Belle watched him with a single raised brow, pursing her lips as she slowly nodded. "All right. Don't be a stranger, then. I get lonely and even if you're not a talker, it's nice to talk _at _someone rather than talk at a wall."

"Noted," replied Dove, blatantly squinting at her, as if trying to determine the reason Gold had placed him here in the first place by attempting to squint into her soul.

"I like to watch nature programsin the evening on the telly. the big cat show in particular, which is on at," Belle glanced over to the clock on the wall. "Six o'clock. Why don't you join me? Gold might want you to stand alert like a little guard dog, but this is Storybrooke, not a Bond movie," she informed the man in a matter-of-fact tone. "We could even have dinner, if you can stand me that long."

The man stared at her with a different sort of squint, an incredulous squint. "I will...consider it," he slowly spoke with a nod. "I should go," he added, looking towards the door.

"All right, off you go," Belle smiled up at the tall man, preparing to ease out of her seat.

Her body usually ached from the drugs, sometimes from the tumor itself, but moving about after remaining still for a long while was a hassle.

She was disgruntled to hear Mr. Dove's lumbering steps near her, glancing up to see him, hands extended towards her. "May I?" he questioned.

She was humiliated to allow herself to be plucked up and placed around like a rag doll, but at the same time, she knew she'd only embarrass herself if she attempted to move herself and tumble to the ground.

She remembered a pick-me-up book she'd read in school, _Tuesdays with Morrie_. It was a non-fiction told by a man called Mitch, who visited his dying teacher each Tuesday. Belle had look for the quote later on, but it read:

_"Do you remember when I told Ted Koppel that pretty soon someone was gonna have to wipe my ass?" he said._

_I laughed, You don't forget a moment like that._

_"Well, I think that day is coming. That one bothers me."_

_Why?_

_"Because it's the ultimate sign of dependency. Someone wiping your bottom. But I'm working on it."_

As far as Belle was concerned, she could be lifted five times a day if it meant keeping herself from falling so low that she would need such actions done by another.

Mr. Dove was gentle and careful as he placed his hands at her waist, nearly hugging the girl as he pulled her up to her feet, so deftly that she wondered if Gold ever needed the man to do the same for him.

As soon as she was on her feet, he loosened his hold, though his hands hovered around her as she swayed lightly, taking a moment to steady herself.

"Thank you," she mumbled, eyes on the door. She convinced herself she had no reason to be ashamed of being lifted like a child, but it was something she still couldn't accustom herself to.

He only nodded, taking a step back and giving a little nod. "I will see you later, Miss French," his voice rumbled.

He had been about to take his exit, heading towards the door until Belle's voice halted him.

"I'm Belle, Mr. Dove," she called.

He turned his head to the side, Belle swearing that she saw a smile on his lips. "Good day, Miss Belle."

She grimaced as he left her, quick to follow after the man, peeking after him from the door frame.

Belle watched Mr. Dove pause down the hallway, rummaging in his pocket and unearthing a flip-phone. She watched the man press a single button, indicating that whomever he was calling was on speed dial. He began to speak, his shoulders stiff and his expression alert.

Almost as if it was his job.

_It was._

He was calling Gold. He was giving him an update.

On _her. _

Gold _wanted_ this.

What was she, the president? A celebrity? She wasn't quite sane, but she was normal as far as people went.

Why the hell was he wasting so much time and money on her?

"Are you ready for your shower, Isabelle?" Belle both jumped and cringed. She'd jumped from the fact that Ratched had been standing beside her door the entire time as she'd peeked out, an unamused sneer on her face, but she'd cringed by the use of her full name.

"I suppose I am, if Mr. Dove isn't going to guard me _in _the shower," she muttered, earning another sour look from the woman.

Good Vibrations was the shower song of the day, Belle decided, belting out the chorus as she scrubbed through her hair, which was slowly, but surely falling back into its original brunette color.

She'd planned on adding a blonde streak or two back at home before she'd passed out for the third time while working for her father, stowing the kit away in her luggage.

After she'd been admitted for testing, she'd dyed it that night in her tiny little four by four bathroom.

It was almost as if she'd known deep down that she'd lose it all anyway, that she'd be damned.

She left the showers with her big, pink fluffy robe on, walking barefoot through the halls, even though Ratched's irritated voice followed her, nagging at her to at least put socks on.

A few germs wouldn't do anything to her.

A cold, maybe, but what was a cold to her current state?

She heard the clacking of Ratched's kitten heels echoing behind her, coming to a halt as Belle reached her hall and noted Mr. Dove, standing outside her door.

"Good day, Mr. Dove," she happily crooned, imagining the look on Ratched's face as Belle walked past the man, who offered her a curt nod.

Belle stepped into her room, shutting herself in and locking the door for a moment of privacy.

She rummaged through the dresser provided to her, as patients that practically lived in the hospital such as her had special little privileges.

Today was a sour crocodile day, she decided, set off by her morning of Ratched's glares and Mr. Dove's oddity and Mr. Gold's seeming obsession with keeping her provided for.

She shot her green slippers a dirty, yet loving glare after tugging on a new pair of knickers and pajama pants on.

Her bracelet jingled as she tugged on an oversized black shirt with white text reading: "Why date when I can read?"

It was sassy and today she was feeling sassy as well as sour.

Today she was also feeling that it was a day she needed to see Millie.

Belle shot herself a glance in the mirror before exiting the room, following the blue line on the tiled floor that would lead her to the recovery ward.

Millie had been recovering for as long as Belle had been in the hospital, a month. Her file said that her full name was Mildred Fische, but Belle had decided Millie was less cordial. The girl probably had hated being called Mildred during school, just as Belle had hated being called Isabelle.

While the truth was that Belle didn't nor could actually _know _what Millie wanted in the end.

She walked into the large room where various men and women lay in their beds, some with casts, some with bruised faces.

Millie was at the end, just like she always had been.

Millie was beautiful and this made Belle want to sob.

She was beautiful and she had refused to speak nor even spare anyone a single glance ever since she'd been placed in the hospital.

She had the deepest blue eyes, just like the color of the sky and her hair, oh god her hair.

At first, Belle had assumed the girl had dyed it, but after a few weeks and no change to her roots, she realized it _was _natural.

It was the reddest hair she'd even seen, just like the fire truck that occasional blared by on the road.

She sat with her porcelain hands folded, her lips in a straight line and her beautiful eyes blank.

She sat and stared.

Belle had found her two days after she was admitted taking it upon herself to speak with the girl.

She looked sad and Belle wanted to figure out why, but when she was met with silence, she just resumed talking.

The next day she spent an hour in Millie's bed. Belle had simply pushed the side rail down and squeezed in beside the still girl, Millie not even responding the entire time.

"Let's see if I can see what you see, okay?" she'd said, the girl stiff as a board.

A week later, Belle had finally gone to the one of the nurses in Millie's section.

"That's confidential, I'm afraid," said the nurse, a newbie by the way she chuckled and smiled at Belle like she was three.

"Listen, I'm probably gonna be dead in a few months. Who've I got to tell?" she snapped impatiently, the woman flushing in response.

"I'll get in trouble if-"

"My mother's dying wish was for me to save someone like this, you know that?"

Belle's mother had died after she was born, therefore she was lying unless her mother had babbled to baby Belle in the ancient hidden baby language with her last, sweet breath. Of course she hadn't, but it was necessary for the good of the mute girl to spin a little white lie.

"Fine," the nurse groaned, disappearing in her office for a moment before providing Belle with a beige folder.

Mildred Fische was the daughter of Milo Fische and Rita Fische. Her mother had died when she was three, hit by a drunk driver on her way home from bringing her father lunch at his fishing boat.

She was admitted to the hospital after an attempted suicide, jumping from the harbor during the winter while the ice at the edges of the dock was thin enough to break through, her body sinking to the depths below and nearly catching hypothermia in the process.

There were little details as to _why _she'd jumped. Even her father had no ideas as to why she'd done it.

Millie was lucky that Archie Hopper had such a love of walking his dog, as the man had spotted her jumping and immediately ran after her, diving in the frigid waters, Pongo's erratic barking catching enough attention that someone chose to call for help.

They'd gotten Millie out and cared for her, but ever since, she'd never spoken a single word.

Not to Belle, not even to Archie, who visited once a week with flowers.

Belle liked Archie, even for being a shrink. After he asked Belle his shrinky questions and reminded her that his office was always open, the two could actually talk over Millie's staring, Belle always curious about the happenings of the town, even if she couldn't quite fit into it anymore.

Belle liked to think that Archie had fallen in love with the girl and that one day Millie would see this and finally wake up from staring.

Perhaps Archie would kiss her and she'd wake.

Maybe she'd just wake up and act like nothing had happened.

Until then, she was stuck with Belle.

The girl clambered into bed with the other girl as usual, ignoring the stares from new patients and the disconcerted looks from other nurses as she scrunched in.

"Hey."

"..."

"How are you today?"

"..."

"I'm great. Someone's paying my bills now and even assigned me a bouncer, plus he hugged me on the roof yesterday."

"..."

This was how their conversations went. This was how they went and they were still much better than any other conversations Belle had ever had.

"It's Mr. Gold. I know, right? He's supposed to be scary, but he really hugged me and I think he's gonna be here for me, even though I don't know why. I'm not complaining though," Belle sighed, slumping beside the girl as she reflected.

"I don't know, I'm not gonna be wife material. No, no! I'm not thinking that!"

Millie never looked at her or even commented during her talks, but Belle liked to pretend she did, or at least acted like the girl did to make her feel better.

"Millie can I tell you something?" she murmured, her eyes suddenly watery.

_Probably the drugs. They usually make people sad...I think. _

"Millie, the chemo's gonna ravage my ovaries..." she suddenly sniffled, her heart suddenly full of such agony that she wanted to claw into her chest and chuck it away.

"I won't be able to have kids," she quietly uttered, the words finally settling as she heard herself say them.

She wondered if it'd be like the movies, if Millie would finally move and look at her, saying "I'm sorry," and sobbing with her, but it wasn't.

The girl resumed staring.

"I can't have babies, doesn't that matter to you? Aren't you my friend?!" her face was nearly an inch from Millie's cheek now, her teeth bared and tears leaking from her eyes. "Even if I somehow live, even if I make it, I won't be able to have kids! That's all I've wanted Millie, kids! I had names, I had images, I _wanted_ them and I-I..." her voice cracked and she retracted, taking a long, shuddering breath. "I can't get what I want...that's life, huh?" a bitter laugh followed, her lips pursing.

If the girl had remained at Mildred Fische's side for a moment longer, she might've spotted the wavering glimmer in Millie's eye, maybe even the tears that threatened to escape.

"Hey," Belle sighed, scratching the back of her head. "I'm sorry, Millie, I'm getting stir-crazy, I think..."

"I just...I'm getting down on myself again, like before..."

"I don't know anymore, it just is hurting a lot. My heart, my body."

"And now Gold's here, like some sort of guardian...angel, if that fits."

Belle fell silent after her occasional reflections, remaining quiet next to the girl until she finally rested her temple against Millie's shoulder, eyes slipping shut, fingers curled around her shirt.

She knew she'd get no response from the girl, but just to rest upon someone was a nice thing, whether they were moving or not.

Belle even fell asleep for awhile, the passing nurses either tutting with disapproval or hiding a smile behind their clipboards.

When there weren't nurses, Millie's hand actually withdrew from her lap, her single, cold index finger pushing Belle's messy locks behind her ear before returning to her lap, the girl locking her gaze onto the blonde's head.

When Belle woke an hour later, Millie had been the same as she'd been when Belle fell asleep.

It hadn't been the best nap and Belle's head ached enough to cause her to wince, but she pushed on, shifting out of the bed and walking back towards her room.

It was nearly five, meaning she'd slept for quite a long while, almost missing her first program.

Belle walked into her room, but stopped short in her tracks, blinking a few times.

Her bed was covered in all sorts of..._things. _

She saw various chocolate bars, books and _slippers_. She'd even been given a notebook and a fancy pen.

She also saw Dove, sitting on the poorly cushioned chair beside her bed meant for guests, which was never filled by anyone.

He had the television on and was currently watching a mother zebra stomp at a hyena, her foal behind her.

The image in Belle's mind made her laugh aloud, drawing the man's attention.

Gold clearly had been busy gifting her with these things, including Dove.

All Belle could imagine in that moment was Mr. Dove at her bedside, a big, frilly ribbon around his chin and tied atop his head, a strict look on his face.

"Hi," she couldn't stop smiling, even as she felt another angry throb from her head.

"Mr. Gold sends his regards," said Dove, nodding to her bed.

"I see that," she wryly responded, glancing over the books he'd supplied her with. He'd given her quite a few classics, though some of the titles she didn't recognize.

"If the slippers don't fit, he will supply you with the right size," Dove informed before shifting his attention back to the screen.

Belle looked over her new slippers closely, as she was strict with her slippers.

He'd purchased her penguin slippers that wore little red bows, pink pig slippers with curly little tails on the back and white bunny slippers with little puffy tails.

She approved, which was strange.

Belle had gone through many holidays that left her with more slippers to hide in the back of her closet, never a fan of what her father purchased for her, but these slippers, they made her happy.

Belle supposed one day her father might unearth all of the slippers after going through her things and the thought alone sparked a sudden feeling of anxiety and anguish, one so strong that she nearly threw the slippers she currently held in her hands.

She didn't make her sudden twist in mood vocal nor obvious, but set to placing her gifts in their new locations, keeping her head ducked.

When she finally crawled into bed and settled to watch her nature programs with Mr. Dove, she felt a sort of ease settle inside of her chest.

"Thank you," she directed to Mr. Dove.

He turned to her, his dark eyes almost fond as he nodded in acknowledgement.

"And please tell _him _'thank you' as well," was her last wish of the man for the day.

The two were silent as they watched various mishaps in the savannah, Belle happy to share the droning stillness of the hospital with another, even if he spoke no words.

Millie didn't either and perhaps the two would get married, Millie and Dove.

Belle suppressed a smile as she glanced to Dove, deciding that the day hadn't been ruined by her realization.

Children or not, she had a friend now in Mr. Dove.

She also had Mr. Gold, though he hadn't visited her yet.

She wondered if she was meant to sit beside her door like a dog, faithfully awaiting its owner, as Gold _was _paying for his life.

Belle could only wonder what he expected of her in response.

* * *

**Storybrooke Belle is definitely quite different from our FTL Belle, but I love writing her. **

**Could you guys spot the various easter eggs? There were quite a few from Lost and one from Trainspotting!**

**Thank you so much for reading, dearie! Review if you wish to do so! **


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